


Gangster's Paradise

by MU_I



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MU_I/pseuds/MU_I
Summary: “I’ve heard rumours about you, Jackieboy.” Reyes’ voice dropped to a lowered purr as he ghosted his fingers across the sides of Jack’s face in smoothed actions. “But none of them said you were this pretty.”The glitz, glamour and gang wars of 1920s America. New York City. A place riddled with bloody violence as two rival factions wrestle for its control. But what happens when the up and coming latest star of Overwatch and his energetic, outgoing western bodyguard fall into the hands of the particularly interested flamboyant leader of Talon and his stoic, emotionless top hitman?





	1. Bloody Beginnings

Curled tendrils of grey rose in whispered spiralled strands to mingle with the smoggy air that drifted in layered patches of darkened fog above his head. The bearer glanced briefly upwards to the navy, crayon-rolled skies, gaze narrowed in slight concentration to pick outlines of clustered orbs from the darkened canvas. Betrayed to the sharpened chill in the wintery air, their spine collapsed in shudder as they took one long, delayed drag from the object pressed tightly through their lips, the crimsoned lines chased by the ghost of a carved grin as the tobacco hit the backs of their brightly pearled teeth in full euphoria. 

The pinprick of ember at the carded cylinder’s end illuminated before disappearing, obsolete to the stub of a meaty finger that rose past tangles of matted greased russet to press over the tiny lick of flame, extinguishing the burnt amber from sight. 

Their companion watched the scene through thinly screwed eyes, but gave no rise, passing no comment as the smoker pulled the cigarette from their mouth and tossed it to the street cobbles, snuffing the thing from creation under a spurred heel.

The bizarre choice of fashion finally raised a reaction from the figure drenched in ill-fitting waistcoat and slacks, pressed to the grime-ridden trunk of streetlamp opposite the first form; a brow riding from darkly hooded bolts of electric cerulean, the thinned blond strand rising to caress a lightly creased forehead in playful judgement. “Really? The boots? Aren’t they a bit…” A skew of the nose followed the thoughtful pause as the poorly dressed man searched for the proper summation of his friend’s excessive sense of costume. “Much?”

The owner of the offending object shrugged, pads of shoulders angrily scraping against the uneasily stacked crates they were pressed into in casual lean. “Aren’t yours a little…Less?” The speaker drawled in offered retort, a finger jabbed in the direction of the tarred leather coverings clung to their observer’s own feet, equally simplistic in their tanned style as the smoker’s spurs were bizarre. Any question of the smoker’s origin was instantly revoked in the drawl of southern twang that dripped from the first word gruffly muttered.

The first speaker folded their arms to their figure in a tightened, defensive prison of limb. “At least I don’t play cowboy.”

“At least I look half decent when on jobs.” The smoker instantly shot back, filling their lines perfectly as if in practiced routine. “Really Jackie, what would Winston say?”

“That you look like a five year old kid who raided the dressup closet. And I told you Jesse, it’s _Jack_.” The man leaned to the lamp – Jack – huffed in fumed indignation.

“Whatever you say, _Jackie_.” The smoker now identified as Jesse purred to a widened shark grin.

“Dammit, McCree.” Jack groaned, a hand palming the sides of his face in angry exasperation. “Remind me why I like you again?”

“Because of my winning personality.” Jesse gave a bucktooth grin to which Jack answered by choice of loudly broadcast snort of derision. “Besides,” He added in upbeat chipper. “Someone’s gotta keep the pip on ground level. Can’t have everyone treating you like some damn royalty just cuz yer half decent with the right end of a tommy.”

There was a stagnant pause in which both men fell into a comfortable lapse before Jack broke the quieted lull, a gutted grunt his narrative as he unhappily dug in his waistcoat pocket, pulling a fob watch from the hidden outer folds of material on the edges of a gold clasp link. He clicked his tongue in irritation to the hands’ strictly lined positions. “She’s late.” He announced bluntly, underlying tone fretfully anxious.

Jesse hummed out an occupied, semi-coherent agreement as his fingers restlessly slid to his own jacket pockets, searching the depths in frantic clawed swipes before coming across the familiar hardened worn edge of cardboard box that he hurriedly withdrew, flipping the lid to deftly disturb a thinned stick from its brethren. Another hand fell to the opposite side of the silk, jumping in memorised motion to the pocket to pull out a silvered block, uncapping the lid and raising it in an elegant arc to his chest, flame stuttering slowly to life and casting the beginnings of chiselled jaw into better view.

He tapped the toe of his spurred shoe against the concrete as he raised the stub end of the stick to the lighter’s head, the frenzied rhythm continuing as the lit roll passed elegantly across his fingers to his mouth. “Give her time.” Jesse grunted in between lengthy drags. “It’s not like we asked her to walk to the middle of enemy territory and act clueless so as to be issued a membership to one of the most dangerous organizations currently hiding beneath this city’s sewers.” He barely paused to take haggard breath before continuing in hurried rush. “Oh wait, yes we did. Girl just got her self outta a suicidal situation, least you could do is give her five minutes to get over the life trauma.”

“Jesse,” Jack growled in muted warning as his fingers angrily played across the polished sides of the watch surface in nervous drum. “Is being late ever a good sign in our line of work?”

“Jack.” Jesse echoed in teasing mirror. “She’s probably catching a cab, or making sure there’s no tail on her back. Those bastards are almost more paranoid than you. If that’s even able.” Jesse tipped his head back slightly in a lowed chuckle. Jack muttered an unheard sullen rebuttal but a thin smile licked the pained grimace as he softly dropped the watch on its chain back to fabric and took up his post once more, the friendly comfortable quiet returned.

The amiable space between the two, however, morphed to a sharpened frigid tension as successively howled rat-tats of explosions broke the nearby distance, the ring of fire echoing to the two men’s instant leaps from their posts, bursting to action with a grim determination as each reached to the holsters lain across the tops of their hips, fingers deftly drawing the sleekly lined bodies of guns from their place with polished practice, the two remaining in a fluent synchronization as they blustered a furious charge towards the source of sound.

Jesse swore harshly under his breath as he tugged the roll from between his teeth and with a sorrowful final gaze, cast the tube of the second cigarette, regretfully discarded, to the curb. “Just try not to die. Please.” He added in unusually serious plea. “Contrary to standard belief, I like my head attached to my body. Winston would kill me if you died and then we’d both be screwed six feet under.”

“No promises.” Jack’s head bobbed violently as he weaved through the darkened rows to Jesse’s front. “Anyway,” He called back without turning his head. “Isn’t that kind of your job?”

Both men paused in their approach, huffed breaths frozen as they glanced nervously at the other, the rapid line of fire blown somewhere – now in the nearer distance – cut abruptly off to a strangled, high pitch shriek, after a moment of passing both sounds showing no signs of resuming. “Shit.” Jack ran a hand through his blonde mop, disturbing the orderly caramel-licked bangs from their strictly combed to place posts. “That can’t be a good sign.”

“Maybe they’re just slipping some shuteye?” Jesse suggested in a hopeful tone, stretched in its ignorance, even to his eternally optimistic character.

It turned out they were not ‘just slipping some shuteye’. Jack’s face blanched in fury, one hand vindictively striking the wall to which the unpunctual contact was slumped, the hapless female’s forehead freshly crowned with the still-smoking burrowed gash of bullet hole drilled through a crinkle of its wrinkled brow.

The corpse was otherwise alone; the shooter nowhere in sight, slipped from the scene as if smoke, vanished without trace and the suggested expertise of a skilled expert. One who knew not to leave any evidence of foul play behind.

The bullet hole was standard, the gun used probably military issue, making it nigh impossible to trace back. The contents of a small leather satchel thrown to the stone a metre from the woman's ankle had been removed – any local bull would assume the case a simple mugging. As would anyone who chanced to stumble on the scene. Anyone who didn’t know the implications of Nora Cox’s recent return from a job bussing tables over in the South side of the city would simply place her death with the countless other victim's of the city's immeasurable population of nameless violent thieves. 

Jesse’s suited form bent as he crouched, his spurs clacking the ground to the loudly vocalised frustrated growls of his companion. Jack bristled to the side of the bloodied wall, his gun cocked and held to the front of his chest in expectant stance, as if daring the killer to turn the corner and return to the scene of crime. 

“Still warm.” Jesse confirmed mournfully, his fingers rising from the heated cheeks of Cox to briefly pull her lids over the dulled glassy pupils, his head bowed to his chest in respect. “Talon must have gotten word. Picked her off before she had the chance to meet us.” He experimentally patted the sides of the crimsoned jacket crisply clinging from her flesh. “Took everything with em too.”

Jesse glanced nervously at his companion whose raised hackles were now almost visible, the fury marring the normally angelically calmed sea of features painfully explicit. “So, what now?”

“Now we go tell Winston.” Jack paused to mop a shaking hand to his glistening brow. “And hope we don't end up in the Hudson.”


	2. Go Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so love 1920s gangster slang. So elegant

Jack’s steps fell in silenced fluidity with Jesse’s as they hurriedly swooped across the expanse of dimly-lit street, their receding figures thrown to a poor illumination by the series of flickering, overhanging amber sentries that lined the edges of the curb in sombre order. Each of the dying glazes reflected to greyed cobble stuttered to the dart of unexpected movement that stilled as quickly as it occurred.

The rushed pace of his own mutedly slapped plain leather and the softened metallic tings chasing Jesse’s heels of silver-dripped polished steel rose slightly but remained indistinct in volume, the near inaudible climb spurred by the beginning tracks of falling moisture dealt from the heavens that softly decorated the cracked surface of sidewalk the pair ran through, the two quickly finding themselves wading through shallowed lakes gathered to the concrete with an animalistic ferocity.

Jack’s eyes briefly strayed to the ground, a sparking shudder elicited as he glimpsed his own ghosted reflection; the man staring back half demented in his whipped storm-torn tangle of sun-kissed mane and bagged downtrodden waistcoat.

Wildly electrified blue met electrified blue for a stuttered pause, but the image soon distorted, torn to a wave of suggestive marred ripples as one stride of loafer disturbed the calmed sheen, and in a blink the moment was gone, a brief memory to the vast array of unforgiving structures and dying lamps they crossed in the hurriedly beaten retreat.

Jesse dipped a brief hand to the crest of his battered faded tan Stetson, the rim of the hat now thoroughly sodden, to tug the staple of dress down, a cascade of water dragged with it to poorly spatter the ends of his shoulders, the instinctive adjustment casting the side of his shaded face to further darkness. If Jack saw the move he made no comment towards the man’s other odd choice of accessory, slightly ragged breaths falling from his pursed lips the only indication of the effort required to upkeep the ambled gait, the pumped legs never breaking stride.

The two passed unnoticed, both weaving like spirits through the emptied space – unusual in its near total abandonment by the swarming mass of citizens, both law-abiding and those who perhaps had a habit of bending rules to suit needs, the area lost to the unspoken unease that had settled in a dense fog around the entire block upon the filling of one particular vacancy in a nearing block.

Their rushing forms mingled with the shadows, slipping with a rehearsed ease to the guise of each inked tendril cast by darkened towers of emptied apartments to the left and telephone cubicles scattered at occasion to their right.

“Home sweet home,” Jesse joked in deep guttural roar as the pair ducked off to the side, bowing their heads so as to avoid the lowered ledge of door frame as they levered the bulked frame of an averagely built structure carefully open and slipped out of the now torrential downpour and through the thinned gap.

Each of them shook the worst offending droplets from their sleeves in violent waves. “Dangit.” Jesse growled in complaint as he shed the drowned silk to crisp white undershirt, balancing it loosely off from one of his shoulders, a pool of silvered drool slipping from the drenched tilted sleeve. “And I liked this jacket too.”

Jack tightly held his silence, corner of lip lifting in slight smile at the whined display, as they paced the roll of plush crimson carpet in the narrowed gash hallway; the brightened walls thrown to colour by the variety of shade lamps hung sternly from their sides; dripped a sickened murky brown in match to the plain sea of cabinets that casually lined the faces, various troves of trinkets and knickknacks – glints of gilt jewellery and leathered covers – poured atop their surfaces in randomly placed scatters.

Both men paused at the occurrence of a second door, the cut alcove rested beside nearly entirely obscured by the clever placement of a towered filled bookshelf to its edge, the framework giving way with a violent tug to the dully polished brash handle from Jesse’s part. The door threw to a selection of moulded wooden plank stairs that led down in a claustrophobic descent, its conclusion thinly lit by a spider crack of glow at the lowered edges of a thick carpet drape hung at the ceiling from an array of golden chain rings. 

Muffled footfalls echoed hollowly, jarringly loud in the otherwise stiffly silent passage as they descended the case. Jesse swaggered in his steadied gait as he sped past a reluctantly lagging Jack who was practically dragging his heels in his excitement. Jesse grinned manically, one hand reaching without delay to the end of the burled magenta curtain and whipped it back, throwing the pair into a momentary confusion at the sudden intrusion of blinding brightness.

Jack was the first to recover; one hand falling from the orb it had passed in angry rub over to grasp at the line of pocket to his right hip as he ambled through the lit opening and into the room. As became second nature to all in such a vacation as his, his eyes roved the walls, sliding in a precise sweep of the glaringly royal purple papered screens. His form relaxed, shoulders falling back from their places of attention as he found none of the memorised decorum out of position.

The gaudily decorated room was a far cry from the demurely designed simplistic hallway posing as its predecessor. Velveteen scarlet carved sofas eloquent in their rippling lined backs adorned the sides, joining elegantly carved matching chairs in clusters to ebony crafted tables, the hardened knot surfaces disturbed by emerald sheets placed to their polished bark and weighted in place by collections of abandoned bottles – all relieved of their contents.

In rare circumstance, the both the back and front of expansively stocked bar situated at the room’s far end were abandoned; each of its tenders and frequented clients shuffled together around a wood table to the room’s centre, a mountainous pile of flimsy caps to its middle in accompaniment of the usual offered cracked glass vials and sea-froth foam-stained liquid.

A familiar excitedly quivering brunette, manically-grinning Cheshire blond and doll-faced blondette, all of them dressed to the nines in black pin suit and thinly cascaded tassel knee-length dresses, were locked deeply in battle, and Jack inwardly groaned. Poker games shared between Oxton, Fawkes and Ziegler _never_ ended well. A statement made true not just because the partially deranged explosives expert was a particularly sore loser and the doctor seated to his right, as indicated by the various emptied neck bottles dotted in scattered ring round her seated person, an extensively heavy drinker.

The entire vision was painted brilliantly to the vivid glare of a spiral of dewdrop crystalline shards dripped extensively from one of the lowered beam rafters running in a caress of cross patchwork across the ceiling’s surface of cobbled chunk stone.

Everything about the setup of the Brit, the Swiss and the Australian gathered seemed painfully close to the opening lines of spiel leading to some punchline. Despite their cultured spread of inheritance, each player of the tightened circle of staunched faces shared the same guarded expression; creased concentration and slanted eyes appraising the value of each bunch of cards held in suspicious strict walls to chests.

Jack caught the eye of the brunette who held a hand in cheery recognition, the force of frantic greeting dislodging the yellowed plume feather elegantly lodged in a nest of shoulder-length scooped chocolate behind one ear lobe. He waved back with a lightened but genuine grin. Lena’s optimism was infectious.

“Welcome back, Jack!” The girl giggled as if delighted with her rhyme, face breaking to a splitting beam before crinkling in its returning concentration to the game in progress, happily chirping “Raise” as she threw scattered chips to join the heaped full pile amassing at the table’s middle.

“Deal me in boys.” Jesse purred as he blazed past, hastening his gait to swipe a rickety chair from the side and drag it to the rounded table. The move was narrated to horrendous splintering screeches of wood forced roughly on stone. His head bobbed and form shrank to half as he slipped into place between the brunette and blondette, swinging his legs to the seat’s sides in the reverse mount as he leaned the butt edge of his chin into the crest of the hardened rung back.

His face tipped to a quick glance at the abandoned friend as fingers deftly snatched the scattering of cards the brunette threw his way, face twitching in slight concentration as he arranged the messily stacked wad into an ordered fan to the front of his broadened chest. “Care to join, Jackie?”

“No thank you.” Jack pursed his lips. “Unlike some, I like the insides of my wallet filled.”

Jesse grunted then returned his gaze to the front, analysing his held hand. “Suit yerself,”

To his right Angie smiled thinly, her marbled, almost statuesque features marring behind their curtain of soft falling caramel, thrown to poorly veiled disappointment. “Where’s Cox?”

“Dead.” Jack immediately sprung , answering in a deadpan. “Where’s Winston?”

The blondette dropped a hand from its grasp of cards to tightly pinch the end of her sculpted nose, sighing in dramatized exasperation and grief. “Oh he ain’t gonna be happy about that. Already been stuffed in the office all day.”

“Bad day?” Jack glumly ventured.

“Absolutely awful.” Angie confirmed in an echoed hollow tone.

“Well he likes you, so maybe you won’t be pushing up daisies by next week,” Jesse, ever supportive, offered without looking up as he rolled a thinned disk between his meaty fingers before throwing the chip to join the rest of its brethren.

“Gee thanks Jesse.” Jack snippily bit, poisoned tone laced in a headed sarcasm. “Enjoy the game, bucko. I hope you lose.”

Jesse whistled thinly between his teeth. “Well lookie here, the pip has a side o’ humour to him! Guess you’re not just some hotsy totsy bigshot after all. Okay Junkers,” the boom of southern twang petered off as Jack gained distance, the narration of play fading to soft whisper as he veered through a drawn archway to the back of the bar and into a trail of further corridor. “Raise me twenty…”

Jack grimaced as he made his way, shifting his weight uncomfortably as the destination neared then arrived. He exhaled, drawing deep breath like a half drowned man bursting from the ocean surface, his hand pausing on the cooled handle as he wearily eyed the patch of glazed fog glass to the door’s top.

Winston was a hulking gorilla of a man whose mood could swing and voice with it, shifting in fluent transition from gentile whispered timber to volcanic eruption of animalistic rage in the short snap of an eye; as a result, the leader’s presence was stiffly feared by both his followers and enemies alike. However the king pin was also fiercely protective of his members at the worst of times and those in the closest circle of the tight knit family knew of his odd penchant for jarred peanut butter, allowing the grizzly bulked form stuffed into a charred pinstripe one-piece suit to bear an approachability, albeit a somewhat slight one. Nevertheless, none favoured entering the disorganised clutter of office, especially when to relay bad news.

Jack sighed, picturing the beginning scrawls of his will as he slunk through the door.

The man sat in a severe whippet line behind a darkened willow desk, one side of face brought to eye by the harsh hand of desk light nailed to the space by his left slumped elbow. His eyes beadily leapt upwards to the sound of intrusion, but soon returned their cooled position as the intruder was identified.

The starting crop of a close fitting ebony fuzz was suggested beneath the rim of charcoal bowler smashed to his widened head, one meaty paw raised in a near comical comparison of gentleness to gingerly push a pair of thinly rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his angrily huffing nose.

Any hope of this going even remotely well fled the room, disappearing in sudden charge to Jack’s back upon entry as the ape’s hardened eyes roved over his form, the scene gloriously quiet in a hold of breath before a strictly barked “Sit!” abruptly shattered the peace.

Jack gulped but forced a reluctant approach, slumping into the depths of the chair pulled to the desk’s opposite side. A hand fell to caress the tops of his pistol as it always did in stressful situations.

“Jack.” In that one syllable emotionlessly uttered, Jack resigned himself to his fate. Being liked would only get you so far in this industry, and being as Jesse so eloquently put it ‘half decent with the right end of a tommy’ would do little good when staring down one of the most dangerous men in the business, one of two who effectively ran the city. “You’re alone. And I highly doubt you left Nora Cox playing poker outside with our other associates.”

He shook his head stiffly, fingers pausing in their run of the Colt. “No, sir.”

Winston’s form rose as the man drew himself higher in his seat. “I suppose I can also assume Miss Nora Cox will not, nor will ever be, setting foot in these premises?”

Another shake. “No sir.” He'd prepared for a display of the mobster's famed loss of temper, but instead Winston sighed unhappily, the unexpected disappointment somehow landing a harder punch to the gut than the expected rage would have.

“What happened, Jack?” Winston demanded, though his tone was tired and worn, a hint of just exactly how much sadness life had gifted the man sat to Jack's opposite.

“Talon took her for a ride before we could meet, Sir. Jesse checked, they snatched all evidence and pulled a runner, painted it as a puffing turned pop.”

“I don’t like it Jack.” Winston caressed his temples, leaning back wearily in his seat. “The coppers have been on our backs ever since the pumped metal on Fifth and now they’re sending gumshoes. We’re pushed for resources as is so we can hardly pay em to look the which way, and lately Talon have been coming down harder on operatives. That’s the second time they’ve sniffed a mole this month. Not even to raise the destruction they’re leaving behind. We need to win the city, but if this continues, we’re going to lose it.”

The creased lines of worry dripping from his youthful fattened face seemed to age him an unhealthy twenty years. Jack startled. It was the first time he’d ever seen the thought to be infallible mob boss look vulnerable. “Sir,” He paused, knowing he was currently demonstrating the full definition of _on thin ice._ "Meaning no disrespect, but what are we going to do?”

If Winston was surprised by Jack’s bluntness, he didn’t show it. The gorilla ripped his spectacles from his nose and tiredly placed them on an unsteadily stacked heap of paper in his front. “Protect our assets. I’m going to need you and Lena tomorrow night. One of our best clients is making a round, wants to parade his latest doll to the town, taking her to the best juice joint round. Word is Talon are trying for an audience. Or hit. I’m going to need you working the floor, I’m not sending flowers again this week. Shoot anything that so much as glances at you the wrong way.”

“Yes sir.”

“I like you Jack." A hand wrenched across the plain of Winston's brow. "And I mean that. So does Jesse and the rest. Show them why. You’ve got a good thing here kiddo, you don’t pick a sharpshooter like you off the street every day. So don’t mess this one up. Don’t disappoint me.”

The words hung stickily in the air, ingraining themselves into his mind as they began the vicious echo of cycle that would continue long into the early hours of tomorrow’s morning, as effective a warning as if Winston had pulled his head to the wall and rested a chilled muzzle to the side of his skull. Jack nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yes sir.”

The man lifted a hand to haphazardly shoo Jack's form towards the door. “Get outta my sight.”

Jack happily obeyed the order of dismissal, practically leaping from his place, stumbling over his own awkwardly rushing feet in franticness to escape the dangerously loaded atmosphere.

He felt Winston’s sharpened gaze follow him as he fled through the corridor to return to the poker players, the match apparently coming to its end, Jesse displaying his way with the game as always.

“Go fish.” Jack raised an eyebrow as the westerner purred, grinning cheekily as he threw his hand down, the cards falling to the sharpened gasps of all gathered in a neatly organised strip of painted image across the table top.

“How’s that even possible?” Lena exclaimed in her usual fervour as Jesse happily scooped a crooked arm to drag the chips to his corner.

“It’s obvious, ain’t it?” Fawkes eyed the third royal flush of the match angrily, before jabbing a hand to his opposite’s direction. “He’s cheating.”

“Aw come on Junkers.” Jesse grinned cockishly as he snatched an ace and skilfully flicked it towards the Australian whose face set in a ticked scowl of bloody murder. “Don’t be such a sour Sally.”

“Tell it to Sweeney, McCree.” The blond snarled, one fist angrily kissing the table to a harshly pronounced slam. “Ain’t no half decent way in hell you coulda possibly pulled that one.”

“Come off it Fawksy, it’s just luck o’ the draw. Lena, be a doll and grab us a bottle wontcha?” One hand snatched the emptied glass to his right to raise the bared glass loftily above his head. “This soldier’s dead.”

“Sure thing, love.” The brit skipped from her place, jubilantly trilling from behind her shoulder as she slipped behind the bar, bending to rummage through the stored contents. “Whiskey?”

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” Fawkes leapt across the table, fingers snapping to pull the front of Jesse’s shirt over the wood and in line with his face.

The latter showed no sign of affect, grinning cheerily and batting an eye as one of his hands reached to a rough pat of his assailant’s face. “Nah, I would say three days. Four days tops.”

Jack ignored the squabbling group, blustering past without so much as a backwards glance before any weapons could and would if past experience was anything to go by, be drawn.

He grabbed a fedora from the top branch of a hat stand leaned to the near wall, shoving it roughly to perch on the top of his head as he sternly puffed his cheeks, pushing his hands deep to his slack pockets, shouldered through the separating drape and angrily climbed the wooden flights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary of Terms:  
> pip - an extraordinary person/thing, often used sarcastically  
> king pin - boss  
> took her for a ride - killed  
> puffing - mugging  
> pop - to kill/murder  
> coppers - police  
> gumshoes - detectives  
> pumped metal - shot bullets/gunfire  
> juice joint - speakeasy  
> tell it to Sweeney - tell it to someone who'll believe it  
> this soldier's dead - this bottle's empty


	3. Show em a Little Swing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a long time, huh? Well that was because my laptop decided to die and the USB this was saved on decided to catch one better than a cold and got a virus. So I lost all the written chapters and until now haven't been able to rip that band aid off and rewrite the chapter. But here it is.

Jesse was Jack’s shadow, his insurance for if, _when_ things went South. After all, everything going terribly, disastrously wrong was inevitable in their line of work. Where Jack went the southerner followed, loudly and brashly and making plenty of ill-fitting offhand comments as he did so. Jack’s shadow was currently detached from his steps; leaned casually into the bar across the room in an effort to see how many shots of bourbon could be drowned down as humanly possible. Jesse’s head was drooping slightly – a homage to the seven emptied glasses scattered beside a slumped elbow. He was also alone, something Jack was incredibly jealous of.

“Juuusssssht one dance,” His charge slurred as she tugged childishly at his sleeve. Her eyes rolled uneasily in their sockets, her lips heavy in the stench of booze as they pressed, aiming for his ear, but missing to rub along his tensed jaw. One heel stumbled over the other in a loss of gravity and it was only due to his reluctant hand tugged to her shoulders that she didn’t fall flat on her arse. As Jesse would so eloquently put it, the girl was completely balls to the wall blotto.

“I don’t dance.” He growled. It was a boldfaced lie rattled through clenched dentals. Jack did dance; he tapped his feet and swayed his hips, resigning all control over his limbs to the siren call that dogged his heels whenever musicians struck up their forbidden instruments in the crowded secret halls. He’d danced with Lena and Angie, spinning the two round, dodging tables to the tootled off key beat of Fawke’s trumpet as off the side Jesse’s southern burr drunkenly serenaded their trio. 

He danced, just not with the latest squeeze of the guy he was supposed to be keeping happy. Winston would have his head if he lost their revenue for getting caught locking lips with the business exec’s woman. All he had to do was make it through the night, let Lena deal with the mug, keep one eye out for trouble and not fall into bed with the fiancée. It should be simple. And yet these things had the annoying habit of being anything but.

His patience hit bottom,slamming the polished floor, taking his foot with it. He thinly withheld a growl, the hand groping the curve of his cheek _again._ His eyes roamed from the wood planks to the clustered bar wistfully. He was in no way a heavy drinker, but the occasional scotch never went unappreciated and right now he was damn well in need of a drink.

He stiffened, finding the broadened chest, a low snarl rumbling in his throat as the bastard caught his gaze, smirking lazy gums and stub teeth beneath the not at all conspicuous Stetson perched atop greased rag locks. Once again he cursed the man’s flawing flair for the dramatic. The entire outfit was a direct disobedience against their orders of _don’t stand out._ Jesse didn’t just _stand out_ , he stood out like a hearse at a wedding reception.

As if sensing his audience’s annoyance, Jesse’s grin widened as he raised his glass to his lips with a pronounced exaggeration. The liquid slid down his gullet at the bob of apple to the bat of a playful wink, the toast pulled entirely at Jack’s expense.

One hand briefly fell inside his jacket to run soothingly over the sleek body of the hidden Colt, finger lingering longer than necessary on the inner ring of the trigger. He relaxed into the reassuring weight of the thing against his hip, debating how hacked Jesse would be if he aimed at his head. Or if he’d even be sober enough to remember the shot come the next day.

He pushed his hand to his neck, hastily adjusting the ill-fitting tie that hung from his throat before he could pursue the temptation far enough to take action. The notion was admittedly, one he had entertained many times before. Strip clumsily adjusted, his arm fell to pointedly push the roving digits away from their exploration of his lower half, the action provoking another silenced growl.

He was thoroughly ticked off with the two ‘professionals’ who had both abandoned him at the first goo goo eyes of introductions, Jesse making a beeline for the bar like a dying sailor offered their last drink, and Lena tactically steering their client away so as to avoid any unpleasant development that may occur when they saw their latest arm candy hanging off Jack’s body like some fit-stricken octopus unable to grasp the definition of healthy distances.

He found himself almost wishing Talon would hurry up and make a show, even if it was just to stop the woman from shooting unashamed glances at the space in between his legs, which he self-consciously crossed over.

Apparently tonight was his birthday and he’d just blown the candles because no sooner had the thought cooled in his mind when a ringing screech of action from somewhere off the front clove through the heated rhythms. The woman clinging off his arm, A… – Amy, Andrea, Adelle? – _Annie,_ wailed a broken screech, using the opportunity to somehow force herself even closer into his arms. His expression soured.

Residents crashed to a standstill, shakily pausing before a second shot fired from the back spiralled ordered chaos into apocalyptic mayhem, frozen dancers finding a new lease of animation as they bolted, hands thrown over ducked ears, reacting as if the sky were falling in on their heads.

Half the room – those of the mostly stand-up citizens who’d only come looking for a quick drink and dance and ended up unfortunate in timings – scattered, stampeding as if set alight in their rush to exit. The room so previously silenced came alive to a thunderous roar, the mob rushing over one another in their eagerness, those who were from the ah, _other_ side of law taking up stance and drawing from their bodies an array of objects – all of them previously hidden, all of them entirely illegal.

Those gathered stared hatefully across the room at each other, but it was hatred restricted only to glares. Sure, each seethed look promised murder, and an exceptionally painful one at that, but no one had dared open fire. _Yet_. Though from the way the guy nearest was going from the end of his gun to Jack’s chest and grinning as if all his Christmases and birthdays had come along together, Jack had no idea how long the uneasy standoff would last. _Not long_ , the pessimistic side of his mind chimed ever so unhelpfully.

“Keep behind me and for god’s sakes stay quiet.” Jack hissed, risking a step forward and shoving the woman behind his shoulders. She nodded, licking her lips nervously. Apparently being caught between a shootout was pretty sobering given that she could now remember the intricacies of basic English. Not sobering enough to stop another fondling of his trousers though. If they made it out alive he had a sickened feeling Jesse was never going to let him live this down.

“We’re going to start nice and slow.” He whispered to the girl. “Three steps then me and you are going to leg it over to that nearest pillar.” His eyes flickered over to the bar, a low wince twisting his lips as he found Jesse swaying unsteadily on his feet. He was holding the gun he had so idiotically named Peacekeeper out to his chest, but the liquor had clearly taken its toll – the Stetson pushed to a wonky angle, pulled down whiskers from his nose – which meant he couldn’t be relied on for cover fire.

“You’re going to keep your head down and I know it’s going to be tempting to strike out on your own but you have to stick with me. You don’t listen to what I say and that skull will be full of lead after the next second.” He spoke calmly, a thin edge to his clipped tone.

His eyes darted another scan of the room. Lena and their contract was nowhere to be found. Annoying that he was totally on his own, but at least the guy wouldn’t complain when he got a stray bullet through the shoulder. It was hardly a relief, but he’d take small victories where they were due, a customer with all organs intact meant a stable Winston. Which meant Jack wouldn’t be getting personally acquainted with the New York sewage system just yet. If he made it out alive tonight.

Annie whimpered as he inched their pair forward, leading the first step, his senses sharpening as muscles coiled to spring, a chilled the tickle of her breath ghosting on his neck at the second.  On the third he pulled them into a mad leap, roaring a “NOW!” as he slammed the trigger.

Christmas's Coming Guy in front crumpled to the ground, crimson leaking from the fresh crater burrowed above an eye. The shot ignited the frigid tension, and soon they were charging through a war zone, the air dense with muggy smoke and gunfire.

He sensed her faltering and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, dragging the two of them into a frenzied sprint, the Colt up and aiming to the sides as around them gunmen rose and fell. 

He shoved her round the corner of the pillar, then skidded round to join her in the cover, and found himself staring into the barrel ends of twin shotguns. He grimaced, instantly stopped dead, his eyes following the bodies up the arms that held them to meet a condescending smirk and set of hooded eyes belonging to none other than Gabriel Reyes.

“Why fancy meeting you here.” The gang lord drawled. “So how are we going to do this doll face, the hard way, or the really hard way?” The shotguns twitched as they motioned to his forehead. “Cuz I’m really hoping for the second.”

Somehow Jack managed to silence the string of obscenities threatening to spill from his lips.


End file.
